


Through the Ice of the Beholder

by Virodeil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Aftermath of Violence, Age Difference, Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alien Flora & Fauna, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Planet, Confusions Abound, Crossing Timelines, Cultural Appropriation, Cultural Exploration, Cultural References, Culture Clashes, Culture Shock, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Horror, Intersex Jotunn (Marvel), Jotnar Politics, Jotunn Biology (Marvel), Jotunn Culture, Jotunn Physiology, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Multiple headcanons, Mystery, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, POV Steve Rogers, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow To Update, Spiritual/Supernatural, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers is not amused, The Nine Realms, after the war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-12-07 12:37:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Capcicle, in another way. – Steven Grant Rogers didn’t get entombed in ice when the plane he fought Red Skull in crashed into the sea. Instead, he got transported by the malfunctioning Tessaract to a whole world where ice was very, very, very abundant. And then? Well, that’s where the story starts.(A crossover between a few Marvel stories, chieflyCaptain AmericaandThor, with personal headcanons thrown in for added flavour.)





	1. Winter Hinterland

**Author's Note:**

> Spied a similar story. Wanted to do it my way. Voila! Yet another story…. Good for a one-shot, but also expandable. Who knows where the muse wants to go…. I certainly don't. Well, who would like to embark on this wild, completely unknown ride with me?
> 
> Started on: 23rd July 2019

The Tessaract, definitely alive now and pulsing with its own beats, is the only anchor to reality. `_Ironic,_` Steve thinks, even as he hurtles through _the outer space_ to God only knows where. The Tessaract – or the cosmic stone, or whatever – _used to be_ as unreal to him as flying into the outer space. And now both are awefully, awesomely, frighteningly _real_. He could touch _the outer space_, maybe, if he reached out a hand. Or perhaps he could even touch one of the _stars and planets_ that are passing by so fast all round him, bright amidst the background of inky black.

He _could_, but he _wouldn’t_.

Rambling, frantic prayers mix with imaginings of macabre scenes and scenarios in the twenty-two-year-old’s mind. Meanwhile, he clings fast to his shield with one hand, and one of the handles built into the contraption holding the pulsing blue stone with the other.

He was never one for adventures, although he was always one for family, duty and arts. Now he finds he is still _not_ one for adventures, and he dearly wishes the damned Tessaract would bring him back to earth, literally. Or kill him, at least. Because while Peggy will be waiting for their dance back in London, Bucky will be waiting for him on the other side.

He had been prepared to join Bucky, in fact, before the Tessaract – or maybe God? Or damned overprotective Bucky? – had another thing in mind and spat him _and itself_ through a portal to the outer space. _And the journey is still on-going_.

Now he just wishes to go back to Peggy, confess and apologise profusely to her for essentially trying to kill himself, and perhaps marry her if she would forgive him. So he prays, and prays, and prays, and dearly hopes he can be back with Peggy in the next minute.

Because, if the Tessaract could spit him to this literal middle of nowhere, surely it could get him back home?

He thinks hard on that thought, that concept, and wills the damned glowy stone to … `_Please, please, please, bring me home, oh God please bring me home. Don’t put me anywhere that’s not home!_`

And, as if in answer, slowly but surely, a pale blue dot far ahead gets closer and bigger, rounder. – `_Is this the view of earth from the outer space?_` he can’t help but think, wonder, marvel at the phenomenon. His hands itch to grab some colouring agent – _any_ colouring agent – and a piece of paper to sketch this down.

But no, sadly no. – The closer he gets, the clearer the view is, and some details begin to emerge from the pale blue. _And it shows that this planet is **not** earth_.

At least, he doesn’t think that earth suddenly got covered _fully_ in ice after he was ripped away from it, however long ago the moment was.

`_Bring me back! Bring me back! Bring me back!_` he howls frantically at the glowingly pulsing stone he’s latched onto. Meanwhile, he tries to steer its trajectory away, _anywhere but that ice ball_.

He shoots _faster_ towards the said ice ball, instead, for all the effort.

Worse, the greater details that he can see now do not endear him any. The opposite, in fact.

Ice-layered wasteland stretches from horizon to horizon, punctuated by old ruins of what may be gigantic stone buildings and other infrastructures. Nothing grows there, nor moves, nor leads anywhere. The sun shines on it all, but it’s dim and sluggish and bluish white, unlike what earth has. The quality of the light only makes the ambience more eerie and uninviting, like a waking nightmare.

And then he breaks into the atmosphere, and it feels like drowning in icy water without any hope of escape. To think that he thought he would at least be free of being drowned in the frigid sea, when the Tessaract ripped him out of the crashing plane! Wind from his passage whistles furiously all round him. It’s a small mercy that he somehow doesn’t – or maybe just not _yet_ – feel it stabbing into him, flaying him alive. He hasn’t forgotten yet how he shook and shivered during harsh winters in his childhood and teenhood, trapped in poverty and his sickly body.

He hasn’t forgotten yet, as well, how Bucky never failed to support him through all those hardships.

And Bucky is _dead_.

The bone-breaking impact that his body makes with rough snow is greatly appreciated, with how his thoughts are turning towards Bucky _again_. The oblivion that greets him eagerly right afterwards is simply sublime.

_Un_fortunately, though, the respite seems to last for only a moment. And even more unfortunately, on returning to consciousness, he feels like a discarded animated ice statue instead of a civilised human being – if spiffed up with a Supersoldier Serum. His body is stiff all over and chilled to the marrows. His right cheek digs painfully into a hard, icy, jabby surface. Icy wind whips his other cheek and deafens his exposed ear with its whistling on regular basis. His limbs are sprawled in a very, very uncomfortable position, with joints afire the moment he tries to rearrange them. His throat feels both dry and burnt, as well, and he can’t open his eyes with all the gunk sealing them shut.

To add more misery to his present experience, the desolate atmosphere all round him apparently feels just like what the view of it suggested from up high. Now, though, he _knows_ how _unclean_ it is, ripe with the mixture of violent deaths and other losses, still sharp and potant as if the violence had happened just yesterday. Moreover, something else seems to muddy the air and makes it feel heavy, slimy, filthy and charged. It settles like gutter grime and goo mixed with old cooking oil and wet-battery liquid on his skin, in his nostrils, in his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs and in his brain.

And underneath it all, the sense that he associates with the Tessaract sullies everything _further_.

He _must_ get away, if only to free himself of this horrible, horrible stench and feeling.

Sheer tenacity powers him through, as he first moves his fingers and toes, then his limbs, then his neck, then his body. Pain racks him on each movement, but he cannot stop. He _will not_ stop. This is pretty similar to the time when he had flu in winter at twelve, barely a decade ago, after having the snot _literally_ beaten out of him at school. He survived that. He will survive this, too.

He proves that, by dragging himself into a seated position and cleaning himself as well as he can.

The landscape, when he can open his eyes and look round, is just as bleak as when he viewed it from above. But now that he is in it, now that the Tessaract lies dim and quiescent nearby, now that the unclean sensations drown him, and now that the jagged ruins tower and loom over him, it gets _bleaker_ in his perception, not to mention quite daunting.

Because now he knows for certain that he cannot go home, that he will die in this alien place, that even the damned Tessaract has deserted him.

He will not be Steven Grant Rogers, though, if he doesn’t power through all the limitations set against him.

So he crawls to his shield, then to the Tessaract, then up to his feet. He feels drained, just doing that, but he is determined _not_ to spend any more second here if he can help it.

He is determined not to touch anything in this place with bare skin, either, except – unfortunately – for the icy air he must breathe in. Because, even through the thin gloves of his Captain America costume, the snowy, ice-covered dirt that pressed against his palms just now as he crawled felt all the more unclean, and not because it’s dirt. It felt like burning, clinging, prickling gory slime that immediately made him think of acid mixed with tacky blood and other bodily fluids and _melted organs_, somehow.

If there’s a part of hell that’s freezing, then this would be it, just for the sheer _wrongness_ of it.

He picks his careful way over the chunks of debris, which are often as high as his shins or more. He meanders in-between tumbled masonry and broken giant edifices, so he needn’t scale any of them. He lugs the damned Tessaract with him, so nobody will stumble on it and use it for evil purposes. He uses his shield as a prop when he has to climb up and down a hillock – sometimes a literal _hillock_ – of debris, so he doesn’t have to touch any of the jagged chunks of stone with his hands.

And all the while, even as his throat burns with disgust of the air he breathes in, even as his stomach heaves with nausea of the overall foul atmosphere, thirst and hunger hound him relentlessly. Also, the more time he spends in this place, the more exhausted he feels, despite him parsing his energy carefully. It’s like the land is a giant leech that not so slowly saps him dry.

He persists, all the same. His only other choice, given the lack of materials to light an S.O.S. fire, is to lie still somewhere and wait for death, and it’s never an option for him even when he was a tiny, scrawny, sickly child.

Once, he unknowingly climbs up what looks like a stretch of black stones, piled rather neatly together. It turns out to be _a giant, humanoid skeleton_ on closer look from the other side, which has been picked clean and roughened by – probably – the weather.

He avoids touching the black stones ever since.

It becomes harder to do the farther he walks, though, given the sheer _number_ of the bones lying about. What he finds are not always full skeletons, either, although they are all similarly huge and black – or maybe blackened by age and weather – and retaining no flesh, nor other identification marks.

He is traversing a literal _boneyard_ from probably some ancient battle between giants, _alone_, with neither recourse nor a definite direction towards probable salvation, with icy wind whistling in his numb ears every so often. It won’t be a stretch, nor a sign of cowardly hopelessness, he thinks, to expect that his own bones will join the throng sooner or later.

And still, he persists.

“Sooner” or “later,” after all, is _not_ “now.”

His will begins to slacken, nonetheless, when he finds _better preserved bodies_ among the bones. – Some clinging blackened flesh here; a swatch of purpled skin there; and he even finds _a full body_ somewhere: at least fifteen feet long and maybe more, curled up tight into itself, with sharp, black fingers and toes and bluish purple skin with silvery black marks.

There are unfortunate sods who have been trapped here _recently_.

And he, Steven Grant Rogers, is just the most recent of them all.

`_God, please don’t let me die here. I won’t even mind if you put me back in that plane; **please**! What did I do to deserve this hell? Oh, Mother Mary, please, please, please pray for me…. Get me out of here… – **please**._`

His knees wobble. His ankles weaken. His gait falters. His steps slow down. And still, he puts one foot in front of the other; again, again, again, again and again.

He is not going to rot in this hell, if he can help it, and he still _can_.

He tries not to pay attention on what surrounds him. But it is _damn bloody hard_ to do, when, at the same time, he must pick his way carefully around or in-between the debris, the gaping holes, the bones, _the gaping holes between the bones_, patches of sleek ice of various colours, and even a few huge, broken metallic things that may have been advanced vehicles once. In that same reluctant manner, he finds that not all the bones seem to be of the same kindred as the poor sod that died recently back there. Here, many are smaller, _so similar to his new built_; white, weathered bones, lying on patches of brownish ice that may be dried blood long frozen over.

`_I could end up here, as one of them, just a better preserved body, soon enough._`

His knees quake, even as they stubbornly swing forth in turns. Left, right, left, right, left, right….

`_God, is there anything that’s beautiful and good **and alive** here? I want to go there! I want to die there! Not here, **please**._`

His neck prickles. Something – someone? – is _watching_ him. But what? Or _who_? There is nothing alive here!

But then, if nothing is alive here and he is being watched anyway….

He breaks into a run.

The watching entity gets closer, _fast_, as if a dog on a trail.

A _hungry_ dog on a trail.

`_Oh, God, **please**!_`

He stumbles.

Bright blue overwhelms his wavering, darkening vision.

Something almost tangible brushes against his back at the same time; slimy, prickly, looming, and definitely _hungry_. `_Mine,_` it hisses with the desire of a _thinking_ predator. `_Let me have you. Let me have your body. Be powerful. Be great._`

The Tessaract yanks him away before anything else happens.

He slams down on his back – _on the same place that the thing touched_ – and feasts his eyes on the same pale, dim sky that greeted him once before.

But here, although his body only meets with ice that does not break his fall as much as the snow from before, it is at least _clean_. Just ice. No horrible sensations. No hungry nearly tangible predator.

He loses consciousness overwhelmed not only by pain, but also _relief_.

There is still something beautiful in this ice ball, after all.


	2. Blue, Blue, Blue

Being a soldier in a long tour of duty, Steve is used to waking up in a new place almost every morning. Being a soldier in a hostile campaign, he sleeps light and waits for input from his other senses before he dares open his eyes and act awake.

But this is… different. So very _different_.

For one, it’s as if there’s no roof of any kind overhead, or any kind of wall at any distance and make surrounding him. For two, it feels like he has no stich whatsoever on or covering his body, not even a blanket to sleep on or under. For three, he can only hear one other set of breathing nearby, deep and slow as if in sleep. For four, his bed seems… rather… _organic_: cool and powdery and shifting loosely in his slightest movement but softer, more substantial than sand. And for five, he can _sense_ things, from the heavy, wet feeling in the air far to the left, the position of the celestial bodies, the soft shifting of whatever is under him and whatever is _below_ that, to the slow, powerful _heartbeats_ of… whoever… is parked nearby, and even to the bright, showy, substantial source of power parked at his other side.

This newness, this unfamiliarity, in fact, feels disturbingly like when he underwent Doctor Erskin’s Supersoldier Serum procedure. But he consented to _nothing_ this time! And this doesn’t feel like an enemy camp, at that, for the possibility of injecting _a second serum_ into him to be even worth any consideration. Why would _anybody_ give a second serum to anyone, anyway? It would be wasteful, and Steven Grant Rogers _hates_ anything wasteful, raised as he has been during the Depression Era.

Still, `_Where am I? What happened to me? What is happening? Who is there? So near! – What should I do now? What should I say to whoever-it-is?_`

And then, `_Wasn’t I sucked into a freaky hole in the outer space? Is this why I fell unconscious? But I was awake before… wasn’t I? There was something creepy and exhausting, wasn’t there? Something about… bones? Blue light? Blue ball? Or maybe blue bones? Purple?_`

Unease stirs in him, from the vague recollection alone. The impression of instincts from that bit of memory tells him to move, move, move, move, move and never stop, or he will end up not moving forever, left in hell on earth.

`_Hell on earth? One of the concentration camps, maybe? But I wasn’t trying to free people from a camp, right? There was Schmitt, in a plane, a bomb-filled plane, heading to the sea, a frozen sea. And then…._`

He shivers in _yet another_ impression of instincts, although he presently feels only the coolness of naked skin touched by open air.

And, just so, softly like the touch of the ever-present breeze, _something_ lands on his supine position, covering him from shoulder to foot in one go. It feels just as soft as how it lands, too, like a torn silk shirt he once found in a rubbish bin in a richer neighbourhood a few blocks from school.

_Something_ tells him that it is the nearby somebody who has just covered him in this luxurious blanket. It persists, even though he hasn’t felt nor heard any _physical_ movement otherwise.

He’s just… _sensed_ it.

And so, back to the original problem it is, made direr by this new development.

But, if whoever-it-is has just covered him with _a blanket_, softly and considerately at that, he _should_ not be too wary of them… right?

With that notion firmly in mind, and after flinging a quick prayer to God to please, please, please, please not test him again presently, he moves his fingers a little, then his toes.

Unfortunately, it only disturbs him even more.

His fingers, apparently, are digging into _snow_, based on the texture and depth, if not the temperature. `_But why don’t I feel chilled to the bones? Why didn’t I sink? Why does **snow** feel just like very crumply cotton instead of… **snow**? Why isn’t it **freezing**?!!_`

And his toes… they feel so _long_! Long and strong and tensile _like a monkey’s_! `_Have I been turned into some monkey hybrid? I’ll kill whoever did that for that alone!_`

He can’t dwell long in such concerns, though; not now, not until he is safer, preferably home. So he continues his ginger exploration by moving his hands and feet, then his elbows and knees. His arms and legs got half buried in whatever-it-is underneath him, but they don’t strike bottom yet, and the whoever-it-is nearby doesn’t react _at all_ to his movements, so he continues until, at last, he opens his eyes.

There is no pale-blue sky, void of any prominent celestial illumination. There is instead a soft but deep silvery sky, tinged liberally with equally soft gold, dotted with millions and millions of stars in various colours and formations.

And there are _two_ moons hanging side by side near the horizon on one direction, with one coloured grey-white and the other yellow-white.

An alien planet, indeed! What a marvel! If only there’s a certain, easily reachable way home from this one, _too_!

He drags in a ragged breath through his nose, hold the fresh air in, then let it loose in an explosive sigh.

And still, the whoever-it-is nearby _does not react_.

So he scrambles into a seated position facing the whoever-it-is, a little hunched over, both as a belated, futile attempt to cover himself up in the soft, filmy blanket and in readiness to bolt.

And, as he looks up, a pair of _red_ eyes, _glowing_ softly, framed by _sky-blue_ skin and _protruding bone ridges_ instead of eyebrows, stare into his own. And it radiates… amusement?

He flushes a little, feeling awkward and embarrassed. But instead of warmth, chill suffuses his cheeks.

Go figure…. The very first instance of chill he feels, and it comes _from inside of his own body_. He really, really, really does _not_ wish to find out what _else_ has been changed.

And he is about to find out _more_, regardless, apparently, because something seems to touch _his mind_ lightly, as if in greeting, and somehow he _knows_ that it belongs to the red-eyed stranger seated across from him.

“Who are you?” he whispers, and winces a little. Even his voice sounds deeper, louder, rumblier now, and vibrates a little differently in his throat.

And, apparently, something in it hurts the stranger, for their brow furrows and they utter what sounds like a little _whine_ of pain. The something that touched his mind lightly now nudges a little harder at it, too, as if _also_ in complaint.

Steve would like to run away screaming, but he – _his mind_ – knows well that it will not solve anything; just give him more problems, and he really doesn’t need _more_ problems now.

His heart, meanwhile, is urging him more and more to do _just that_.

Before he can do anything but sit like an idiot, though, the stranger speaks at last… in a _similar_ voice; similar as in deep and clear, though less rumbly.

Not that he is even _able_ to understand what they say, despite their flawless, rather old-fashioned English.

“Greetings, stranger. I am Eðlúðr Eðlínnar-childe of Clan Glonnar. My apologies for adopting you without your consent. I found you by the very border of Thrýmheim. But you seemed to be of good soul and sound mind, despite the traces of Thrýmheim’s corruption on your body. It clung to you, but I managed to clean it off. You were in the verge of death by then. Your body was broken in a few places and healed wrong, you were severely exhausted, and you were also almost literally freezing over. I… did not wish you to die, I admit, before knowing who you are and why you could survive Thrýmheim as it is now. Many perished there; bold explorers like my friend, and the would-be rescuers. I could try to heal you while you were in your old body, but you looked so much like an ás that I feared you might be mauled by grieving people soon enough, and you were not garbed for the climate, anyway; not at all. Were you a lost traveller? What did you do – or what did you _want_ to do – in Thrýmheim? Did you not know that it is a highly dangerous, forbidden area? And please speak _softly_ when you are speaking, especially when you are using mind-to-mind communication. I…. We will learn that skill together, before I bring you anywhere else.”

Steve sits silently through the stranger’s… _babbling_, for lack of a better word, with a heavy heart and a confused mind. In spite of the confusion, still, he _does_ get the gist that he has _indeed_ been changed, irrevocably it seems, into what might resemble this red-eyed, blue-skinned alien, _with good intension_.

And good intensions pave the road to hell, people say….

He lets out a sigh and drops his face into his hands, on that thought. – If “Thrýmheim” is hell on whichever planet this is, and good intensions lead to _that place_….

Well, he is _not_ going back there, ever, even if the way back to earth lies there. That patch of land is just too… _sick_.

Adaptation it is, then. `_And I’d better move away from this one, in case they somehow got me back to that place._`

But, before that, there are things – _essential_ things – that he _must_ ask.

“Where are we? What are you? I mean, I am – _was_ – a human, but I never saw anyone like you on earth. Are we far away from earth? What are you going to do to me next? Can you send me back to earth?”

His interloqutor just lets out a long, long sigh to that barrage, at first, so he gives them a pointed look. He should be the one who does _that_, not them – the one who is responsible for his very predicament.

The chagrined look that his saviour and condemner sports now mollifies him a little. However, then they offer him both a piece of frozen meat and a stone flask of something that smells both sharp and fruity, and his heart feels like dropping down to his belly.

Is this topic so hard, so touchy, that they would like to offer him some food and _alcohol_ to brace himself with?

He takes the offerings, nonetheless, with a soft thank-you, and begins to nibble listlessly at the jerky.

The listless nibbling turns into voracious cramming, once he bites down and swallows the first bit.

Ed-something, the other guy, chuckles and grins mirthfully at him, showing a flash of sharp black teeth in the process. Steve can’t scold them for the reaction, though, this time. Despite the thin but hard layer of ice that encases it, the meat practically _melts_ on his tongue, releasing enticing flavours into his mouth just so, and he is indeed _enthralled_ by it all.

`_Damn. This one knows well how to bribe people. You better watch out, Steve._`

And still, when Ed-something – `_Well, I’ll just call them Edu, shall I?_` – gives him a second piece, he crams that _too_ into his mouth, without any shred of hesitation.

The alcohol follows suit, once Edu begins talking… about Ýmirheim – the _planet_ they are on, presently – and how it is _in fact_ as icy as Steve perceived from outside of it, the milaðen – the _species_ that Edu and now Steve himself belong to – and their preferences for water and cold climates, the _seven_ senses that milaðen are _born_ with, about the _millennia_ that will stretch ahead of Steve if nothing bad happens to him to cut it “short,” about the _three_ sexes that he now has and the genders the milaðen as a society generally _do not_ ascribe to, about the _female _pronouns that they adopt when speaking in a gendered language if a neutral set is not available, about the _mind-to-mind communication_ that is as easy, instinctive and casual as speaking aloud, about _sexual intercourse_ as something _casual_ that is _just slightly more intimate_ than cuddling….

Compared to _all those_, Edu’s admission that Ýmirheim has just limped badly out of a three-pronged war feels familiar – even _soothing_ – to Steve. Because _nothing else_ is. Not even “returning” to his previous shape for his “warm-weather form” can be counted. Because it still _doesn’t_ change the fact that he will live practically _forever_, that he has _extra senses_ that he _must_ deal with or end up an insane hermit somewhere, that he has two _additional_ sexes now with all that entails, and… _everything_.

`_I’m an alien, and Peggy won’t recognise me even if I return home right now. Will Bucky recognise me if I die now?_`


	3. Steve's I, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started on: 5th December 2019 at 07:54 PM  
Finished on: 6th April 2020 at 01:00 PM
> 
> Chapter notes:  
This chapter – and the subsequent “diary chapters” later – contains things that one would put in a _private diary_. Naturally, then, there are sensitive, intimate, bizarre, doodly, typo-riddled, ungrammatical, meandering, struck-out etc things that readers who peek into it may encounter. (Well, the struck-out part, if the site’s formatting would permit it to be shown, really.) The quality of the writing is, moreover, dependent on Steve’s ability to capture his experiences with words. To that effect, I did my best to incorporate US spelling set and expressions into it. Please tell me if I missed/mistook something?  
Given Steve’s predilection to visual arts, sometimes there are also entries that has pictures) on them, or are comprised entirely of picture(s). Such pictures will be described to readers within square brackets (({…}) and given notification that it is a picture, a drawing, a doodle, an imprint of something, etc.  
The entries are chronological, with time skips between each that are sadly not so apparent from the titles alone. The contents, however, can go back and forth randomly, depending on Steve’s recollection and mood at the time.  
Steve is not a prolific writer for several reasons. But a small entry written within the span of weeks, months or even years can fill a very, very thick book when multiplied and accumulated throughout centuries. I planned to make the entries into just one chapter, but thought better of it, thus. And this first part of the diary deals with steve’s introduction to his new lease in life. Time skips for the second part and so on. So, enjoy!
> 
> Chapter warnings: aftermath of war-time violence, Body Exploration

**Entry 1**

Edu gave this journal to me, to record whatever I want and vent. (I guess they’re fed up with me questioning things and rambling. Serve them right.) Surprisingly, it’s a rather ordinary book, at first glance. It’s got lots of pristine white paper and beautiful blue binding. Leather. But then the paper itself feels like thin but durable leather. I hope it’s not vellum. I’m mad at Edu right now but sucking up to me won’t make me less mad I think. The opposite in fact. I’d better tell them later. They’re out hunting right now and I’m here at the camp, the one where they told me what they did to me. The place I woke up in too.

Well I won’t even think on it. Not yet at least. It’s honestly useless to be mad about. It’s already done. things round here are nice though. I’ll have to ask them for something to draw with. This strange pen is unwieldy for even sketching. It looks and feels like a sharpened blackened branch but not brittle. The tip doesn’t really glide on the paper though it makes for a firm writing. Well I guess I can always just describe this place for posterity. If I ever get to really mingle with people here and find somebody to spend eternity with to validate that claim that is. I can’t be with Peggy after all. Damn tessaract. Damn Edu.

–

**Entry 2**

Edu often calls my nickname for them weird and not the one they prefer. I always tell them I didn’t prefer to be changed either. They always shut up after that. It’s a low blow but one that I think needs to be said often. They can do this again to another sod. Maybe with someone with family out there instead of someone like me. Fortunate that Peggy and I didn’t marry yet. Sad though. I wish.

Anyway, we’re moving now, slowly, from the previous camp to rejoin Edu’s famly. We walk. Edu said many of the vehicles got trashed in the war (not their words, but the gist) and the remaining vehicles are kept by the government for very important things that need speed. They also said that “miladen” (doubt it’s the right spelling) like to do things themselves anyway instead of with tools machinery. I can sort of understand why. There’s not much sense of urgency if you live for thousands of years or more and the open air is nice and the ice layer under my bare feet is okay and people here measure things by years instead of seconds anyway.

–

**Entry 3**

Edu noticed me writing much on this thing. They offered to teach me their script, not just their language. I said maybe later. I don’t want to lose this bit of myself. This bit of earth. If I have to live for thousands of years then I have to have something to remember who I was right? And what I was too.

I asked them for coloring pencils or the like instead. They said maybe later. But they said it’s not retaliation cause I didn’t agree to learn their script. They might have something more important to buy or barter they said. It’s post-war after all. Food is primary. Coloring pencils are tertiary or even useless. I forgot about the war. Honestly. Out here there’s nothing to indicate that there’s a war just before the ruddy stone brought me here.

Damn. I wish I didn’t say that out loud. Now Edu’s going to bring me to one of the sites. Damn. I don’t need it!

–

**Entry 4**

It’s SICKENING. Edu chose it right. They brought me to a school. Or rather the RUINS of a school. There’s still CHILDREN under the ruins. We even saw A SMALL HAND peeking from under a BOULDER-SIZED bit. And there’s not any resource yet to spare to dig them out. Or try to dig anyway.

The ruin’s FLATTENED on the middle like there’s a huge hammer banging down on it. A really hot hammer that can make glass out of sand. How can people dig people out of that kind of ruin???

Edu said it’s Asgard’s doing. I don’t know what Asgard is or where but it’s SICK. That PLACE is NOT the only one. Not the only school ruins either. Edu’s brought me to SO MANY of them. And it’s caused by a weapon called the Bifrost they said. A beam of multicolored light that slammed down from the sky. They said the operator of the weapon might be able to see even from that far cause the beam never struck the wasteland. Only populated places. Mostly schools and gatherings. HOMES. VILLAGES. Not even the front-line troops. It’s SICK. It’s no better than the concentration camps.

I’ll tell them about the camps. We can compare notes I guess. Notes of horrible things. But maybe we can prevent things like this in the future.

IT’S CHILDREN. DAMN IT.

–

**Entry 5**

Having the same hole to pee and poo is weird however long it’s been. I’m like a chicken! No actual separate things either! Just one not so smelly (at least at first) dark blue-grey sludge that actually don’t freeze quick. And Edu never stops being tickled with how freaked out I am every time. Thankfully it doesn’t happen often each day (just about 3 times) and we only eat once a day anyway plus several times eating snow instead of drinking water so there’s just little to get out. Edu said milada metabolism is efficient too and nearly everything is used by the body.

But still!

And they said the people here use the thing as vertilizer for people’s food plants when it comes the growing seasons. (The “melting seasons” it’s called here. Cause the ice melts everywhere and the ground is becomes reachable and workable. Twice a year.) Crime rate is actually low cause people don’t want to have to work on preparing this thing as vertilizer as punishment! Before the war at least. Now everything is still broken up Edu said.

–

**Entry 6**

I met an alive milada other than Edu today. (Here the day is when the moons shines. Not the sun like when I first arrived here. Weird.) But the person might just as well be dead. They’re so still and silent and – well they feel dead and it’s still kind of disturbing how I can feel people’s presences now that Edu changed me.

It’s another ruined place Edu brought me to. They said it used to be a big centralized school for further education. A uni in other words. And it’s just as flattened as the rest. Edu calls this milada Tio, or maybe Teo. Well something like that. And they’d been staring at one spot in particular when we happened on them. They’re more like an ice statue than anything. Edu was so sad when we met them. Said the guys used to be in the same guard unit. Took the petrified one much to move away from there. And we’re still in the vicinity however creepy it feels since they still don’t want to go away from here. They still don’t say anything either but Edu don’t have to tell me. I think I know they’ve lost someone pretty close to them. Like me and Bucky.

I wish I could wait on Bucky like that instead of coming here.

–

**Entry 7**

Well I’ll call the new guy Teo I think. More familiar to me than Tio or Tyo (though the latter’s more likely. I got to admit. Based on how Edu said it.) And this morning they cracked up at last. After so long. Though they did consent to leave the vicinity after our sleep got filled with lots of nightmare. (Residue of the horrible feelings lingering there Edu said.) Or at least they didn’t mind it when Edu tugged them along. Just not to populated places yet it seems cause they blanched when Edu suggested a few city names around here that I recognize.

Anyway got to admit that I was sort of bickering with Edu. Like Bucky and me used to do. About me getting a proper clothing instead of this measly blanket though instead of who’d get the last serving of the meal. And Teo just – cried. Silently at first. Then big sobs like after I truly realized that Bucky’s dead and the nightmares afterwards and the fact that I can’t get drunk to try to get rid of the nightmares.

It was quite upsetting. Such a dignified person. Brought so low. I thought the dead one must be their spouse or child.

Well. Turned out it’s their firstborn AND their lastborn. Born from their own womb. Together. In the uni that day. Cause the big sibling was trying to keep the littlest one safe. And keep an eye on them. And the big sibling was just a teacher. Not a soldier. Not a politician. Not anybody else important.

Edu told me. After Teo was calmer and somewhat asleep. Cause Teo was babbling in their language. (Haven’t learned it yet.) They cried. I cried. Couldn’t help it. Can’t help it. Better stop now. Too raw Still too raw.

–

**Entry 8**

Teo cut Edu’s blanket into a loincloth. For me. I couldn’t help cracking up to that. Edu was so shocked and incensed. Speechless too. I don’t know why they’d feel that though. They gave that blanket to me for clothing. Teo is was just kind enough to make it into anything approaching true clothing. Not my fault Edu is so insensible! Glad too that Teo is reaching out. I bet Edu’s equally more or less glad too despite all that.

Downside is, now Teo’s glued to my side. As if by giving me a loincloth I’m suddenly their kid or something like that. Well Bucky and his family kind of adopted me after Ma died but this is – different. I think. Not gonna tell them to scoot away any time soon though. They’re looking more alive now and I’m onestly glad about it.

{Rough, full-body, monochrome sketch of Teo, complete with body markings.}

–

**Entry 9**

Edu retaliated.

They asked me if now that I’m more accustomed to my own bodily waste and senses and shapes I’m maybe ready for some sex education. (Not their word though.) I nailed their face with a good-sized snowball for that. When they weren’t looking.

And Teo laugh. For the first time ever.

Satisfying.

{Sketch of a smiley face with huge comical eyes and tongue sticking out.}

–

**Entry 10**

Teo gave me half their portion in mealtime.

That sealed it.

I told them I was flattered but they weren’t my mom or dad. In my politest way possible. Told them I’m used to small portions anyway after what everybody went through post WW I.

I ended up telling them about everything almost everything. Ma, Bucky, my pre-serum body and life, everything. And they listened. Edu too. And – dunno – but I felt not alone somehow instead of too open.

Huh. So sappy.

I’ll bonk anybody with my shield if they ever peek into this thing. Or deny everything. Maybe.

Got to go now. Edu’s telling me how to forage for edible plants and small animals. Bet Teo’ll be chipping in and make them irritated in some way. That mom can do passive aggressive like nobody’s business.

I’ll catch them or make them something as thanks. Teo that is.

Satisfying. Really.


End file.
